


the world at the end of a string

by tormalyne



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universes, Canon Divergence, Fluff, Happy Ending, Light descriptions of violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-16 12:51:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13054371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tormalyne/pseuds/tormalyne
Summary: What might have happened.At first, Sandalphon thinks he’s dreaming. Then, he knows he’s not; angels dream only in prophecy, and what he sees is neither what was nor what could ever be.





	the world at the end of a string

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ideallyqualia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ideallyqualia/gifts).



> Written before What Makes the Sky Blue Pt2, and now clearly quite non-canon. Consider it an alternate way the story might have gone following Pt1. Or many alternate ways the story might have gone...

At first, Sandalphon thinks he’s dreaming. He exists, and that is a surprise, more than he’d thought he’d have left when Lucifer descended, the singularity Sandalphon had so eagerly sent plummeting to her death held so tenderly in Lucifer’s arms. He exists, still has body, sense, thought. None of that is surprising; what does startle him is that Lucifer has seen fit to leave him with his sense of self even after all that he’s done rather than unmake him to his core.

So, he exists, and he can think only that he must be dreaming, for there is the faintest lingering warmth upon his brow, the sense memory of an achingly gentle touch.

Then, he knows he’s not; angels dream only in prophecy, and what he sees is neither what was nor what could ever be. Lucifer would never allow this to come to his zealously guarded world.

There is nothing. No vast stretch of white, featureless and bright. No black, hungry void. Not even the traces of stardust that make up all things, even primal beasts – except for the matter already irrevocably in his blood and bones.

Sandalphon exists, and that is all, present in this space that is not a space, light that is not light, void that is not void. There is no color, no heat or cold, only the curious lack of sensation that is not sensation at all. There is only him, the awareness of his body, arms, legs, fingers, toes, and the familiar empty ache on his back of his missing wings. All he has is his thoughts, and even they are quiet and small.

For the first time in centuries, the heavy, gnashing spiral of Sandalphon’s rage is gone.

This, then, is the cradle Lucifer has made for him. Formless, endless, inescapable.

No, not a cradle. A cage.

Sandalphon would laugh, but it seems his rage isn’t gone after all. Anger ignites from an ember in his throat and leaps upon the laughter as kindling, hungry flame consuming the bitter mirth before it can form. And what does it matter? There is no one to hear. There is no one and there never will be, for Lucifer cannot bear to destroy him, but Sandalphon cannot be left free. He is too much a threat to the world under Lucifer’s charge.

He will be trapped here forever, penance for what he’s wrought. Grim satisfaction fills him. This is the punishment he deserves, and he can find some small, mean bit of gratification in knowing that at least for once, Lucifer had faced him and seen him as he truly was.

Sandalphon is not surprised that this was Lucifer’s decision. No matter what Lucifer had said, he is not the quiet, meek shadow of Lucifer that he once was. He is twisted, wrong, broken; what else could he be when he is a primal beast without purpose? Only sentiment could keep Lucifer from seeing that, and their maker had no use for something so base as _sentiment_ in his primarchs.

He closes his eyes even though there is functionally no change between the dark-bright nothing and the darkness behind his eyelids. Rage still burns in his chest, and he welcomes its warmth, the sharp, stinging satisfaction of pyrrhic pleasure. There’s no use struggling. Lucifer has created for him a prison far more secure than Pandemonium. Outside time, outside space, and there will be no escape even for a fellow primarch.

There is sick, lurching comfort in the knowledge that at last, Lucifer sees him. He forced Lucifer’s hand to this, and at last, Lucifer has done something for him and him alone.

Sandalphon drifts. He cannot know how much time passes when time does not exist. At some point, he opens his eyes again, but the nothing he stares at does not change. What does it matter if his eyes are open? What does it matter if he has a body, if he has eyes or ears or fingers to flex into furious claws? There is no sight, no sound—

A flicker. A ripple in the stillness of the nothing, a pebble dropped into a still pond. The warmth of sunlight, the scent of a cliffside sea breeze, a memory, of the girl in blue— Only a memory, it must be.

In the nothing before him floats a single, pure white feather.

No. No, this can’t be, and his heart leaps in his chest, the rage inside him spikes into an inferno’s roaring whirl. Sandalphon thinks he screams, can feel the raw ache of his throat, but there is no air to carry the sound. This is his punishment, this is what he’s earned, _Lucifer is finally looking at him, don’t take this from him—_

 _Take it,_ a soft voice says.

The rage quiets, snuffed out. 

Sandalphon reaches for the feather, unable to resist that familiar note of command even with two thousand years stretching between them.

( _You want to be forgiven,_ the girl in blue had said. _Didn’t you want to help him?_ she’d asked, and he had turned from her because it was the truth and he could not face it.)

But Sandalphon stops himself, fingers inches from the soft white plume. He is no longer that eager shadow, hanging on every one of Lucifer’s words. To return to that, a pale imitation, a purposeless echo of greater glory, isn’t what Sandalphon wants at all.

If all is forgiven, his atrocities forgotten, he has nothing. Even this endless, empty (lonely) prison is better than that. At least in this cage, Lucifer must give some small part of himself to keep Sandalphon contained. So long as he is dangerous to the world Lucifer so loves, Lucifer cannot look at Sandalphon without _seeing_ him.

He is an instant away from lowering his hand when another voice rings out. _Take it,_ the girl in blue says, her voice light and sweet without the echo of that ragged cliffside scream. _Please. It’s for you, don’t you want to see?_

Spurred on by that plea, Sandalphon’s fingers brush the feather’s soft edge. The nothing around him fractures, a soundless, lightless explosion. Maybe, he thinks, he’s dreaming after all. Possibility pours down around him like the sea.

 

_1._

Far, far below his perch on the lowest plains of Heaven, the mortals scurried about like a hundred thousand ravenous, gnawing rats. Sandalphon, yet unspoiled, removed from the squalid world below, watched them go about their tiny, insignificant lives and tried to understand the duty with which he’d been tasked. 

Stand distant and oversee the evolution of the world. Protect its peace and harmony. Only he, the supreme primarch, was worthy of such a command, and when the Astral had come to him in turn after Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, and Raphael, he had bowed his head and accepted his purpose without resentment or regret.

Sandalphon had served his duty without complaint for eons, even after the Astral had passed. He would continue in it for eons more, but he took no joy in his work, no satisfaction. The world he oversaw was a dim echo of its maker, pale and washed out. His duty was merely work to be done, the extent of his purpose. To abandon his task would be to turn away from his very existence.

Below him, two women argued; they had both slept with the same man. A cutpurse followed a swaying, stinking drunkard into an alley; a moment later, one swift, silent stab, and the drunkard lost both his coin and his life. A mother wiped away her child’s snotty tears; blood trickled from a scraped knee.

Pathetic. And yet this was the world that his master bid him protect.

What worth was there to be found in it, Sandalphon wondered idly. What value was there to be found in the lives of these squalling, petty beings? For eons, he had guided them, a distant figure, only intervening when not to do so would breach the evolutionary chain, and yet still Sandalphon could not find any satisfactory answer.

Below, a flash of color, too bright to belong to the pallid mortal world. Sandalphon jerked from his reverie and stiffened. His wings flared out as he focused his attention down, down, past the teaming, chaotic noise of insipid mortal life, narrowing in, searching for—

There. A flicker of movement, too vivid for the dull mortal lives it walked amongst. A brilliance glowing with its own blinding light, the gleaming incandescence of a heavenly being’s wing, not quite hidden as well as it should be.

 _Lucifer_ , he thought with rising incredulity. The fallen angel, the unneeded spare, cast out and locked in Pandemonium by Sandalphon’s own hand. Lucifer had been soft in his lack of duty. Lucifer had cared too much for the mortal creatures under their care, had balked at making the larger adjustments to the world that their master required, and had suffered due punishment for refusing his duty.

Sandalphon still recalled the moment he had condemned Lucifer to the company of the monsters who made Pandemonium their home with great pleasure. It had been one of the few times he’d relished his duty, seeing one more defective creature locked up in that otherworldly prison. Lucifer should still have been trapped in that place, a spare stored safely away for the chance he might one day be needed. Impossible, when Sandalphon would neither falter nor balk as Lucifer had.

And yet, undoubtedly Lucifer walked below him, looking unchanged save for the veil he had drawn over himself in an attempt to muffle his heavenly glory. Somehow, Sandalphon thought with a spark of what he realized was pleasure, Lucifer had escaped. 

How long had it been since Sandalphon had gazed upon Lucifer’s face? How long since he’d felt more than dull tedium, his rote adherence to his duty turning as colorless and unfulfilling as the world below? The answer to both questions was the same.

One great flap of his wings, and Sandalphon dove through the clouds, an arrow without need of a bow. 

The ringing of Lucifer’s sword as he caught Sandalphon’s blow echoed, a clarion call that sent the mortals around them scattering like startled mice. The bright flash of their blades made the mortals cry out and cower in fear, huddling on their knees. Good, that was where they were meant to be, and even in the midst of battle, his sword scraping down the length of Lucifer’s blade, Sandalphon felt hot satisfaction.

He lashed out with a flurry of blows, each backed by brilliant power, hammering at Lucifer’s thin blade. Each spark was a star, percussive force booming out around them, and in their glory, Sandalphon felt something inside him catch and come alight.

He pressed Lucifer relentlessly, smiling wide and fierce, battle lust sharp behind his teeth. This was what a primal beast was meant for, to fight terrible battles, not herd the Astral’s sheep. Lucifer caught every blow, every darting flick of Sandalphon’s sword, but Lucifer was hard pressed, his teeth gritted, no breath for words to match the gleeful cry that tore itself from Sandalphon’s throat.

Before, when they had both been of Heaven, Lucifer might have been able to match him. 

Before, when Lucifer still possessed his wings.

Now, the fallen primarch had only the short, misshapen stubs of one remaining pair, miserable remnants of the glory Lucifer had once held yet still gleaming with bright incandescence. Sandalphon had enjoyed tearing the wings from Lucifer’s back, ripping out great, shining handfuls of feathers before he’d sealed Pandemonium’s doors. He could still remember the vicious burn of satisfaction in seeing Lucifer so diminished – and the bite of helpless fury, that through it all, wings reduced to nothing more than bloody, misshapen stumps, Lucifer had not once lost that sorrowful look of acceptance.

The same sorrowful look that Lucifer wore now as Sandalphon swept aside the fallen primarch’s blade and sent Lucifer to his knees. He paused, standing above Lucifer, drinking in the sight of Lucifer’s defeat. That was better, the fallen primarch helpless in the dirt with the mortals he so loved.

(And yet it was no better at all. Lucifer should have been beautiful, glorious, his strength at Sandalphon’s side, not crouched and panting, his clothes stained like those pathetic mortals who couldn’t hope to carry even a fraction of Lucifer’s light.)

Whatever satisfaction Sandalphon felt turned cold. There was no pleasure to be found here, nothing he wanted in the dirt of the mortal world. Still, Lucifer looked up at him with sorrow, and Sandalphon tasted only an aching, empty bitterness on his tongue.

Two thousand years ago, Sandalphon had shown too much mercy in only locking Lucifer away, in allowing Lucifer to keep the stunted remnants of his wings. He should not have allowed Lucifer his life.

He would rectify that mistake now.

Laughing madly, Sandalphon raised his blade and reached to tear those last pure ivory feathers away—

 

_2._

Pandemonium was frigid, a bone-deep cold that no heat could hope to dispel. Sandalphon, his wings taken, his glory near-extinguished, could not even hope to ward himself against the chill, and he no longer bothered to try.

That was fine, though. Even if he shivered, even if he ached with chilblains, even if he knew the ache of cold that no primarch should ever have been able to know, he did not complain, or even think to do so.

He had no need of warmth, or of anything else. Warmth was a memory of something taken from him, an existence from which he had been freed. He was grateful, so, so grateful; Lord Lucifer told him to be. Lord Lucifer gave him everything, and if Lord Lucifer did not provide it, it was something of which Sandalphon had no need.

Sandalphon’s world inside Pandemonium was blessedly simple. All he needed was Lord Lucifer’s will, and Lord Lucifer’s will was that Sandalphon remain here and aid in their master’s research of how best to direct the outside world.

Every day inside the tower was the same. Sandalphon was set against the creatures that roamed every floor, the terrible, monstrous beasts. Every day, he fought through the hordes, winning his way deeper and deeper, armed only with whatever weapon Lord Lucifer saw fit to allow him. His purpose was to test every blade, to see its strength in a near-mortal hand, and Sandalphon threw himself to his task willfully, joyously, screaming with pleasure as the creatures ripped and tore at him.

He had purpose, and Sandalphon could want nothing more. Being used at Lord Lucifer’s command, feeling claws slice through him, the warm trickle of blood that ran down his skin as he fought on and on – it was bliss.

He had use, and Lord Lucifer used him well and often, and at this knowledge there was room for nothing in Sandalphon but heady, delirious pleasure.

Sandalphon could not ask for more, and yet Lord Lucifer was so kind, coming to him when the weapons broke and Sandalphon was left bloody and beaten, a tool that could no longer serve its purpose. Lord Lucifer was gentle when he lifted Sandalphon’s broken body and carried him up from Pandemonium’s depths to tend Sandalphon’s wounds so he might once more be put to use again.

As he lay resting on a table, Lord Lucifer’s power knitting his wounds together, restoring him, Lord Lucifer spoke.

“Once,” Lord Lucifer said gently, his hand pressed with painful pressure to a jagged fracture of bone, “you had a different purpose.”

Sandalphon turned his head toward Lord Lucifer and listened; he said nothing, for it was not a question, and Lord Lucifer would indicate if he wished a response, but even though the movement pulled at his aching body, he would show that he attended to Lord Lucifer’s word.

“You had wings,” Lord Lucifer continued, “and they were stolen from you. Once, you were a primarch in your own right, and you stood at my side.” Was that a spark of heat beneath Lord Lucifer’s calm voice? Sandalphon thought so, but he couldn’t imagine why.

Lord Lucifer stared at him with a searching gaze, almost as if he was waiting for something, but he had not asked Sandalphon anything that required a response. Sandalphon stared placidly back, content just to listen, awash in the warmth of Lord Lucifer’s presence, the musical cadence of Lord Lucifer’s voice.

“Once,” Lord Lucifer repeated, “You had a different purpose, and the knowledge of it nearly destroyed you.” The words stirred something in Sandalphon, a faint, dull flicker of curiosity. He frowned; why was Lord Lucifer telling him this?

“I took your wings. I am the one who has done this to you. I thought it a kindness.” Lord Lucifer sounded… sad? But that could not be. What reason would Lord Lucifer have to feel sorrow or regret when they were both serving their master so well? “I thought this might give you the purpose you so desperately sought.”

Something roused, far back in the recesses of Sandalphon’s memory. Something hot and feral and raging, the precipice at the edge of a dark pit, the feeling that he was about to be swallowed whole. He could remember, Sandalphon realized. In this moment, if he grasped the thing crouched in the darkness, prowling at the edges of bright consciousness, he would remember everything Lord Lucifer spoke of. He would know what he had been. He would understand why Lord Lucifer sounded so sorrowful.

He turned away from that foul, pitiful thing. What need could he have of it when Lord Lucifer was before him, so bright that shadows could not exist in his presence?

Sandalphon smiled at Lord Lucifer and reached out his hand. Bloody streaks marred the smooth alabaster of Lord Lucifer’s skin as his fingers brushed Lord Lucifer’s cheek. “Thank you,” Sandalphon said. The thing in his head sunk back into its pit. “For giving me new purpose.”

Lord Lucifer truly was kind, permitting this small touch, staring down at Sandalphon with an unreadable expression. Even in the cold of the tower, Sandalphon felt warmed through. “Truly,” he said to Lord Lucifer joyfully, “I want nothing more than to be of use to you.”

He didn’t know why that only made Lord Lucifer look sadder, but a moment later the sorrow was gone and Lord Lucifer only smiled his serene, benevolent smile at Sandalphon again.

As Lucifer turned to go, the trailing edge of one great wing brushed against Sandalphon’s still outstretched hand—

 

_3._

An hour ago, there had been only screaming. An hour ago, there had been a great mortal city, teaming with life.

An hour ago, there had been a thousand voices raised high.

Now there was only ruin. The once-proud walls were nothing more than cracked piles of rock. Pennants that had snapped at the forefront of armies lay torn and trampled, their bright colors dulled with dust. What had been gilded, dazzling buildings now jutted up as rows of jagged teeth against the red sky.

The thousand voices were silent.

Sandalphon flicked his blade, shedding blood from the gleaming steel. He walked one of the city’s many empty streets, his footsteps so light that he left no trace of where of he tread. The blood spattered onto the muddy ground unnoticed; the streets were already paved red and his boots were stained dark. 

Beside him, Lucifer slid his sword from a body and let it fall. The corpse had once been a boy, young even as mortals went. He had challenged the two primarchs with nothing but a rake and screwed up courage, and at Lucifer’s blade had met his end. Now he would lie in the dirt until he rotted, until the vultures circled above him and pecked the meat from his bones; there was no one left alive in the city to bury him.

Such was the fate waiting for all who would oppose the Astrals. The boy was lucky. Lucifer had been kind enough to grant him a swift death.

Lucifer stepped carelessly over the body. His boots were spotless, still gleaming. His feet had no need to touch the soiled ground.

It was strange, Sandalphon reflected as he followed quietly at Lucifer’s side. The mortals had no hope of standing against a primarch’s power, and yet these had tried, against not one, but two of their master’s great weapons.

The mortals had tried, and died for it. Surely they could have expected no other outcome, so why had they fought? Why had they struggled so desperately with that fading spark of hope in their eyes?

These were questions to which Sandalphon had no answers. Lucifer might know; once, Lucifer had looked upon these creatures fondly, shepherd to a flock gone astray. But no longer. Lucifer’s heart had hardened as the mortals turned against their master, and now, when he looked upon the creatures, there was no longer any of the warmth that Sandalphon remembered. Now, all that Lucifer’s visage held was a cold, terrible duty.

He would not ask Lucifer why the mortals fought against their fates. He had asked, just once, why the mortals betrayed their master, and his heart still ached with the weight of what he’d seen then on Lucifer’s face.

The city was silent, its streets lined with the corpses of the mortals that Lucifer had once loved.

They did not linger. This was only one city of many, the mortals spread in great number through the skydom. Each island held a breeding ground of betrayal, and their master would tolerate no rebellion. This skydom would belong to the astrals no matter how many mortals the primarchs had to slay, no matter if every city they visited was left silent after their passing.

As they reached the city gates, Lucifer spread his wings. Their great span blotted out the sun, casting Sandalphon in shadow. Sandalphon turned his head, looking back at the red streets, the red sky, the dripping lump of a red body pinned to the side of a red building.

He turned away from its glassy, staring eyes and took to the sky himself, leaving the dead city behind. As he beat his wings, they brushed against Lucifer’s shining feathers—

 

_End._

_Take it,_ Lucifer’s voice says. Sandalphon’s head is quiet. Something in his chest aches. _Take whichever you wish. I am looking at you._

So it’s to be a choice, then. One last act — of mercy? of pity? — offered up by the supreme primarch’s unflinching kindness. It feels like the first Sandalphon has ever truly had. Some small, twisted, bitter part of himself is tempted to call upon what power he has left, set the plume aflame and watch it burn until the iridescence is nothing but charred cinder. Spit upon Lucifer’s last grand act of kindness; what need does Sandalphon have of it? That would be a choice, too.

One last choice. Or the first.

Sandalphon closes his fingers around the feather. It’s warm.

 

_Beginning._

All the fixings to make coffee, grinder, press, filters, a little glass jar of beans, are on a shelf in Sandalphon’s cabin. They weren’t there four hours ago when Sandalphon, at Lucifer’s urging, had left the Grandcypher to join the singularity on one of her absurd missions, chasing down a farmer’s lost prized pigs of all asinine things. Yet here they are, waiting innocuously, with a little red ribbon fixed to the top.

Sandalphon regards them with all due caution, staring as though they’ll bite. And why not? For all he knows, they might. Someone has snuck into his room and left them here without any sign of their intentions. The bow, in its cheery cherry redness, threatens.

He should have known that Lucifer was up to something. The mission was to find _pigs_. Not even the captain, the singularity, in all of her strange, overbearing caring, could have truly cared about such a useless task. Yet Lucifer had ignored his protests that to chase after animals too stupid to stay safely in their pen was hardly fitting work for a primarch and ushered him off, laughing.

It would be good, Lucifer had said, for Sandalphon to do simple mortal things with their simple mortal crew. Privately, Sandalphon doubts that stomping about in the mud, chasing filthy, squealing animals, is going to do anything to endear the crew to him, but even now he finds himself hard pressed to say no to anything Lucifer asks of him.

And now, in the sanctity of his cabin, the coffee maker lurks and stares merrily back at Sandalphon’s scowling.

With a growl, Sandalphon grabs up the jar of beans and storms off to the deck. No doubt Lucifer will be there waiting, preening with the pleasure of his gift. Supreme Primarch Lucifer may be, even while he wears his ridiculous mortal guise, pretending at being nothing more than human, but Sandalphon no longer has any need to hide what he thinks of Lucifer’s _charity_.

He no longer needs to hide what he thinks of anything at all. It’s wonderfully freeing, even if some small part of him yet still quails at the audacity of finding fault with any part of Lucifer.

As expected, he finds Lucifer perched carelessly on the Grandcypher’s railing, staring out at the vastness of the sky. A strong gust and Lucifer would plummet, yet none of the other crewmembers bustling about watch him with even the slightest hint of worry.

Is it trust, or is just one more thing that the supreme primarch thoughtlessly uses his power to hide? Lucifer, Sandalphon knows, is well liked, even if the others think him decidedly odd. They wouldn’t wish him to fall, and so their lack of concern is strange. No one but Sandalphon knows those stupid false wings on his back aren’t merely for show.

“Did I get the right kind?” Lucifer asks as Sandalphon approaches. Sandalphon stops a few feet away to glower at Lucifer’s back. Briefly, he considers the merits of one hard shove.

Lucifer hasn’t moved; his head is still tilted back. He’s staring, Sandalphon realizes, directly at the sun, brilliant and blinding – and with the faintest traceries of red, evidence of the Crimson Horizon’s encroachment.

“Why did you leave it in my room?” Sandalphon snarls. No, perhaps not a shove. He could throw the jar of coffee beans at Lucifer’s perfectly tousled head instead.

Lucifer turns to look at him, and the smile he graces Sandalphon with is as blinding as the sun, too bright for Lucifer’s precious mortals to stand. “I’d like to try it, if you’ll make it for me,” Lucifer says. “The captain told me you’ve grown fond of it.”

The day is bright, but they’re flying high, at a brisk pace, and the air around them is crisp, the breeze on the deck biting. Yet Sandalphon feels flushed, warmth trickling down his shoulders, prickling over the back of his neck.

It really would only take one push. One easy push, and Lucifer would fall. It wouldn’t even hurt him. Lucifer has never been without his wings, after all. Sandalphon can feel it, the strong muscle of Lucifer’s back, the force he’d need to exert to tip Lucifer over the edge—

Instead, Sandalphon takes the last few steps to close the distance between them and leans against the railing beside Lucifer. Unbidden, as easy as habit, Lucifer spreads one bright wing around Sandalphon’s shoulders. The weight of that wing, unseen, incandescent, is both fleetingly light and unbearably heavy. Sandalphon has no words for the sense of comfort that falls over him with its presence.

He turns his head away so Lucifer won’t see the red creeping over his cheeks.

“Tomorrow,” Sandalphon says, “I’ll make you a cup. Now stop giving me presents. I can get the things I want myself.”

Tomorrow, when the sun rises again against the clear blue of the sky.


End file.
